Flight of Fancy

Flight of Fancy

"I won't ask again," Hermione said darkly.

Recovering somewhat, Snape dragged his eyes from shirt-hem to face. "There is," he drawled slowly, "an emergency at the Ministry."

Hermione made a face. "Which means, I suppose," she huffed, "that someone's let a niffler loose, or something similar. I don't imagine you know?" He shook his head silently. "Didn't think so. Well," she said, hauling herself up from the couch, "I better change and be off. Bloody Ministry."

"Why in Merlin's name do you work there?" Snape inquired.

Hermione shrugged before disappearing into her bedroom. "It's the only game in town, sir."

Hermione began feeling guilty as she slipped her nightshirt off. It wasn't Snape's fault. He'd been indentured to the Ministry as a sort of glorified errand boy after the war. (They'd called it 'reparation'.) And it certainly wasn't his fault she hadn't put a robe on. Nor that she was a right bitch when awakened.

And, to be perfectly honest, it felt nice to be thought worth ogling.

"You're…" she called hesitantly, "you're welcome to stay as long as you like. No reason one of us shouldn't get some sleep. I know it's a long flight since I've no Floo."

Snape was absolutely gobsmacked. She'd opened her home (not that it was much) to him. The feeling didn't abate as he watched her bustle about purposefully, collecting the what-not she might need. She picked out the last things, stuffing them in her purse, then dropped a key into his hand.

"Just lock up," she told him, "if you leave before I return."

She had to have been distracted. That must have been it. For, as she left, she leaned over, kissing his cheek as a friend might.

And then there was only her scent of roses in the air.